


A Blaze of Light In Every Word

by EmAndFandems



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e03 Hard Times, Historical, M/M, Missing Scene, Period-Typical Antisemitism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:08:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22311376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmAndFandems/pseuds/EmAndFandems
Summary: A few more scenes of Aziraphale and Crowley throughout (Jewish) history, both Biblical and European.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 69
Kudos: 61
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019, Good Omens is Jewish and so are we





	1. The Baffled King

**Author's Note:**

> Super shoutout to @jumpandfall on tumblr for creating beautiful art for this story, and to curtaincall (@fremulon on tumblr) for agreeing to beta!  
> Please note that the Biblical names may not be spelled the way you expect: Shaul = Saul. Yonatan = Jonathan. Dovid = David. Eliyahu = Elijah. Nachshon is a Hebrew name related to the word "nachash" meaning "snake." Milin is a Biblical form of measurement.

**2883, Shechem, kingdom of Yisroel**

A soft breeze rustles the curtains. The fountain gurgles. A noblewoman laughs quietly with her friends. Someone is playing the lyre in another room, and it’s driving the king insane.

“Come on, Shaul,” says Crowley. Wheedles, really. He leans in. “It’s only a lyre.”

Shaul crosses his arms and sinks back against his seat. “A lyre played by the boy who thinks he can win the hearts of my people from me,” he grumbles. “A lyre played by the one credited with ten times my victories in war. The one whom my son loves more than he loves me.”

“Hm, alright,” Crowley admits, “that’s got to sting, I guess.”

“Sting!” Shaul makes a noise that sounds remarkably like  _ harumph. _

Crowley shrugs. His mind is already on the next temptation. “Well, you know. What can you do about it, am I right?”

Shaul is frowning in a way that even the demon sitting next to him finds thoroughly unpleasant. It is a look that reminds him of his supervisors when he tells them of his latest attempt at an evil deed. For a moment, Crowley is distracted by the thought of his upcoming review, and then he stops to think about what that frown could mean.

“Do… about it?” Shaul whispers, and oh, that is a nasty look indeed. Not the sort of look you’d typically expect from the first king of Yisroel.

“Shaul. Buddy. What’re you doing?” Crowley snaps his fingers, not to perform anything miraculous, just the way he’s seen humans do it to rouse each other from trances. “Hey. What’s going on in there?”

Shaul blinks, turns to look at him, and laughs. “You do say the strangest things, Nachshon. Do not worry.”

Crowley tips his head and squints. “Worry about what? Because, see, that’s not making me worry  _ less, _ it’s just making me think maybe there  _ is _ something to worry about, if you get where I’m coming from.”

Shaul claps a hand on Crowley’s arm and rises from his chair. “Everything will be fine,” he says, and smiles in a way that makes Crowley’s skin crawl. Which, in human form, is not a nice feeling at all.

The lyre music continues in the other room. Yonatan says something Crowley can’t make out, and Dovid laughs. Crowley feels something empty, hollow, twisting inside him. He sits alone.

The next day, they’re back to their usual routine, and Crowley’s prepared to share drinks with the king until they both forget about yesterday’s exchange. Then Dovid’s lyre starts up in the other room again, and Shaul’s hand clenches around the metal of his cup so fiercely that Crowley is half afraid it will bend.

“Dovid?” Shaul calls, and Crowley looks at him, alarmed. “Would you come in here for a while?”

Dovid enters the room with a bow. Yonatan follows close behind him. “What would you have of me, my lord?”

Shaul beams at him, setting down his wine on the table with the precision of a butcher making the sacrificial incision. As soon as the comparison springs into Crowley’s mind, he sets it aside gingerly, afraid to examine it too closely. “Why, I would have you play your music beside me, that I may better enjoy your skills, boy!”

Yonatan whispers something in Dovid’s ear and, blushing, he stammers his thanks to Shaul before sitting down to play. Shaul turns to Crowley. “Shall we play a game?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow, conscious of the way it draws attention to his eyes (he really ought to start looking into ways to disguise them). “Love games, me. What sort?”

Shaul reaches for something concealed at his side. “A kind of target practice,” he suggests, and smiles. “I’ll go first, then?”

Before Crowley can ask what the target is, Shaul has pulled back his arm and thrown a spear across the room. It whizzes past Dovid’s head and impales itself in the wall behind him. The music stops.

Yonatan grabs Dovid’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he says, clearly shaken. “It’s a miracle that missed.”

Crowley squirms. He didn’t  _ mean _ to do it. He’s already crafting an explanation for Hell. Saving lives isn’t typically very demonic. It leaves a strange taste in his mouth. He can picture the forms he’ll have to fill out.

Shaul is frowning. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all. “Must’ve slipped. Whoops!”

He laughs. No one else does.

“Well. Everyone’s fine. Have another go, Nachshon? It’s your turn.”

He offers a spear to Crowley, who shakes his head. “Nah.”

“Suit yourself,” and then he’s throwing this one too, but Crowley can’t react quickly enough to save anyone a second time. It’s only because Dovid is still staring at Shaul that he can duck, fast, and dodge the attack. Because it is, undoubtedly, an attack.

“My lord,” Yonatan says sharply, rising to look his father in the eye, “I would retire to my chambers.”

“Go, then,” says Shaul, not bothering to face him, just glaring at Dovid with that  _ look  _ in his eye. “Be on your way.”

Yonatan bows and walks away. “Dovid,” he calls over his shoulder, and the young man who’s gotten very lucky twice tonight escapes the room without a backward glance.

“What was that?” Crowley says, as soon as they are gone. “Shaul.”

“I am your king,” snaps Shaul. “I will not be questioned. Off with you.”

“Did you just try to  _ murder _ that kid?” Crowley says, ignoring him. “That’s—you can’t do that. So he’s annoying, so what, you don’t throw pointy things at him until you hit him, that’s just not—”

“Nachshon.” Shaul’s voice swallows his. “I gave you an order.”

Crowley resists the urge to tell him what he can do with his orders. He leaves instead, swallowing down angry words, and then a thought occurs to him. Probably a warning sign, really; his thoughts rarely turn out well for anyone involved. But he can’t stand to let this slide, so he walks a little faster, hoping for something he doesn’t dare articulate— There, ahead of him. Yonatan sees Crowley following and frowns. He waves Dovid ahead with what looks to be a promise to catch up in a minute, although Crowley’s speculating at this distance, and waits.

“Nachshon?” Crowley’s never gotten the sense that Yonatan likes him very much, so he does his best to make this quick.

“Listen. Your dad’s been… weird lately, right? Especially around Dovid. You’ve got to get him out of here. Hide him, say he’s ill, say he’s dead if you have to, just get him away. He can’t stay here.”

Yonatan bites his lip. “I know.”

“Dunno why I’m telling you this,” Crowley mutters. “Gonna be he—something to pay if this gets back to  _ them. _ But Dovid’s a good kid, and you don’t deserve to watch him get skewered by your maniac father. Got it?”

Maybe he can spin it so that he’s destabilizing a regime. That’s got to be demonic, right? And if this Dovid really is the threat Shaul perceives him to be, this could start a civil war, couldn’t it? Starting wars is evil. Crowley knows how to win over the crowd, sometimes, when inspiration strikes; he can conjure an excuse and make this part of his job. Saving teenagers from crazed kings? No, he’s fostering chaos in the empire, stoking the king’s madness, driving him to bloodlust. That’s him all over.

It occurs to him that he could even show off his betrayal of Shaul’s trust as devilish behavior. He’s stabbing him in the back, isn’t he, shooting him in the foot by helping Dovid. It’s not about  _ helping; _ it's treachery, it’s court intrigue. Yes, he can definitely pull this off. But it’s probably time to move on. He’s heard great things about Greece, hasn’t he?

“I understand,” says Yonatan, his eyes milin away, his thoughts presumably closer to the redhead waiting in his chambers than to the redhead standing before him.

Crowley is already gone the next day. So he doesn’t see Yonatan ask a familiar figure where Dovid is. He doesn’t hear the response,  _ Frightfully sorry, but he’s been sent off again. To the war, you know. I’m sure he’ll be fine, dear boy. _ He doesn’t even know how close they were.


	2. But You Needed Proof

**3044, Mount Carmel, kingdom of Yisroel**

Aziraphale twists his hands together as Eliyahu raises his own above his head. The crowd’s noise quiets.

“I alone am God’s prophet, against the four hundred fifty serving Ba’al,” Eliyahu tells them. Aziraphale glances at the other group of prophets and sighs. They do not look pleased by his claims. Eliyahu continues. “Bring forth two bulls and let them choose one! Let them make a sacrifice of it, but let them not light any fire. I will do the same. Then you call on your god, and I on mine, and whichever answers— that is God.”

“That sounds right,” the crowd agrees, “Seems fair, yeah, alright.”

Aziraphale knows what he’s been sent to do. He only hopes Eliyahu knows the other side will have a contingency plan.

“You,” says Eliyahu to the prophet closest to him, “choose a bull and get ready. I shall allow your side to go first, since you outnumber me. Call on the name of your god.”

“Absolutely,” says the prophet, smiling.

“And,” Eliyahu adds, narrowing his eyes, “do not light any fire yourself.”

The prophet’s smile slips, just slightly. “Yes, I heard you.”

Aziraphale watches the group of Ba’al’s representatives gather. They examine the bulls offered to them; they make their decision; they start to bring it, overpowering its resistance (does Eliyahu whisper something to it as it brushes past? It is impossible to say, but certainly the animal struggles less after passing him), toward the altar designated as theirs. They might appear to be stalling, if not for the sheer confidence they exude. There is something up their collective sleeve. Aziraphale keeps his eye on them.

They do not do anything suspicious. The bull is ritually prepared to exactly the correct specifications, and the prophets begin to pray. Eliyahu waits. The expression on his face says he is prepared to wait all day if necessary.

It might be necessary. The Ba’alite prophets are no longer smiling. Their chanting has become frustrated, angry, discordant. The bull is attracting flies, and still their fire has not been lit by any act of divine providence. Something has gone wrong.

“Shout louder,” suggests Eliyahu, with a very smug look that cannot be said to be unjustified. “He is a god, is he not? Perhaps he is occupied with matters of business, or war… or the bathroom.”

Aziraphale winces. Some of the people in the crowd are growing uneasy; others, angry. He checks the sun’s position: it is about midday. If it gets much later, there will be restlessness, and maybe violence. Even on an official assignment, Aziraphale is loath to pass out too many miracles. He sends up a quick prayer of his own:  _ Let this be resolved in peace. _ Then he tacks on,  _ Please. If it’s not a bother. _

“Perhaps he is asleep,” Eliyahu says, crossing his arms. “If you call him loudly enough, will he not awaken? Will he not rise to do your bidding, if he hears you?”

Aziraphale is no longer paying attention to this speech. There is a disquieting muttering coming from the other group. He does not like the sound of it. He is almost certain someone says the word “snake” very loudly at one point, which makes his heart leap into his throat for reasons he is uncomfortable with thinking about for long; someone grumbles about “sleeping,” too. Aziraphale strains to hear more.

Eliyahu is settling back again. They have been here all morning, but the crowd is not dissipating; if anything, more people are arriving. The Ba’alites are losing their edge. Their sway on the crowd is loosening, and they can tell. A bloody ritual seems to be taking place, at an angle that is tricky for Aziraphale to see and impossible for the crowd; Eliyahu makes a face and does his best to ignore it.

The sun is very low in the sky before Eliyahu does anything else. Sunset is painting the scene orange-gold, a weirdly familiar color that Aziraphale cannot place. “Come, draw in close to me,” Eliyahu says to the nation, and he sets up the altar and calls forth a volunteer to soak the whole thing, bull and stones and wood and all.

“Again,” he tells the man with the pitcher, and again he pours water over the sacrifice, “again.”

Aziraphale gives Eliyahu a pointed look. Showmanship is all very well and good, and his grasp on the crowd’s mood is impressive, but surely this is going a bit far. Is there really any need to make him call down a miracle  _ this _ extravagant? He’ll never hear the end of this from Michael, but what can he do? Orders are orders, and he can’t explain to Eliyahu why he’d rather not have all this sogginess making the evidence of the divine even more impressive, not without revealing himself as someone apart from the other onlookers. He resigns himself to the paperwork and, after the properly dramatic speech from Eliyahu, Aziraphale blinks emphatically.

The altar bursts into flames instantly. The water evaporates as an afterthought. The sacrifice is accepted, the crowd cheers, Eliyahu accepts their applause, and Aziraphale’s mission is complete, so he can leave this place and find out what sort of snake exactly was hanging around earlier. For intelligence reasons, of course; you couldn’t have the Other Side mucking about in your carefully-planned deus-ex-machina events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to potential Crowley activity are drawn from commentaries on this scene in I Kings 18!


	3. The Holy or the Broken

**1244 CE, Oxford, Oxfordshire, England**

Aziraphale leans over the counter and sighs. “Your total,” he says, handing the young man a few coins he’s counted scrupulously despite knowing very well that he won’t be checked on it. It’s alright; he knows the kind of customer his shop is going to attract, and they’re usually too drunk to even try questioning his math or calling his bluff. As long as he isn’t overcharging anyone too grievously, he doubts Heaven will mind. Or notice, really. He could be cheating his clientele left and right for all the good (evil?) it would do him, but Aziraphale has never been one to mince money matters. 

“Have a nice day,” he calls halfheartedly at the retreating back of the man who is now clutching his money with greedy fingers. As soon as the door to A. Z. Fell’s Pawnshop closes behind him, Aziraphale takes another look at his latest acquisition.

“Aren’t you lovely,” he whispers to the book. “And what a bargain of a price he wanted. Come now, let’s find you a place on the shelf.”

He isn’t supposed to keep the items he gets, of course. A pawnshop is meant to give aid to those who frequent it; it is a form of banking, really. Some friar had come up with the idea here, apparently, and in Aziraphale’s eyes that was close enough to godliness to warrant opening his own. He could charge interest, if the customers ever wanted their things back, but they so rarely do. In this part of the country, in this university city, he’s mainly getting students who are here to get rid of their schoolbooks for the sake of a bit of change to spend on alcohol and other unsavory pursuits. This suits Aziraphale perfectly well: drunken students almost never come back to demand that he return their property, and so his collection of books is coming along quite nicely.

He traces a finger along the spine of this latest one. It’ll be tricky to categorize it, and he’s just begun looking forward to the promise of spending a while finding precisely the right spot on the shelf for it when the door opens again without so much as a knock, and at least six people burst in.

“Hey! Moneylender!” hollers one of this tremendously rude bunch. Aziraphale has time only to set down his book with a regretful glance and turn to the intruders before they’re at the counter already. Goodness, that is much too close; he can smell the cheap alcohol on their breath and their clothes. It takes quite a bit of angelic restraint to keep from wrinkling his nose and shooing them off his premises.

“Yes?” Aziraphale says, smiling as pleasantly as he can. “Can I help you?”

Another of the customers laughs, overloud and careless, obviously still acting under the influence of whatever they drank before entering. Aziraphale winces. Someone sneers. He thinks he hears an unpleasant muttering, perhaps a choice word or two, but he dismisses it. He’s got to be professional, after all, and a delegate of Heaven no less! So he turns up the brightness of his smile like fanning a flame with a blacksmith’s bellows, and hopes to overwhelm them so that he can be left alone to shelve his books in peace.

“Got a gift for you,” the first man tells him, to the general amusement of his friends. He slams a book down on the counter between himself and Aziraphale, hard enough to make a sound that echoes even in the cluttered room. “And I want money for it.”

“Hardly a gift, then, is it?” Aziraphale says, before he can think that perhaps he should tread delicately around customers who must be twice his size and, regrettably, more than twice as drunk.

“What?”

“If—if you expect me to pay you for it,” Aziraphale says, wishing more than ever that he still had his sword, or at least that he were allowed to smite humans for being irritating, “then it can not actually be called a gift. You see. Because a gift is, by definition really, given with no—”

“Oh, shut up,” says one of the men at the back. Aziraphale can’t see him, hidden as he is behind his broader friends, but he could swear that voice is familiar…?

“Crowley?” he says, incredulous. Surely there is no way, and yet—

_ "Aziraphale?" _ Somehow, impossibly, it is he. Well, if that isn’t Crowley all over, showing up exactly where it shouldn’t be possible.

“I can’t believe it,” says Aziraphale, although if he’s being honest, he can’t believe it’s taken this long. “How long’s it been?”

Crowley’s pushed his way past the others— students he’s befriended? Ah, yes, it  _ would _ be him tempting them to slack off from their studies and get sloshed with him; that’s properly demonic even if it does, incidentally, benefit Aziraphale at a personal level— and he smiles now, lazy and slow. “Too long to count,” he tells Aziraphale, with half a glance at his companions as a reminder that  _ there are humans about, angel; don’t go shouting about centuries too loudly, they’re not  _ that _ drunk yet. _ “How’s it been going? I see you’ve found yourself a business.”

“Hm? Oh yes. Yes, this is… a business, I suppose. If you’d like to call it that.”

Crowley cocks an eyebrow. That insufferable grin is still as much a part of the conversation as its wearer. “What else would you call it?”

“A public service,” Aziraphale says, with as much dignity as he can muster. He knows full well what this place looks like, with its piles of junk haphazardly catalogued and its piles of books neatly sorted. It is a thin excuse for a business, but Heaven officially approves of it in the terms he uses, so a public service it is and will remain.

“A hoard,” suggests Crowley, eyeing the nearest book stack. “An excuse. An indulgence, even. But certainly not a public service.”

Aziraphale presses his lips together tightly. “My shop,” he begins, but the argument is cut off by the large man, who pounds his fist against the counter in what might charitably be called an attempt to knock. Aziraphale approves of charity in the general, of course, but he has never been particularly fond of charity when it comes to giving of himself, especially as pertains to attention. Besides, would it not be worse to be rude to another customer by cutting him off mid-conversation, than to ignore an interruption? No matter if said conversational partner is supposed to be The Enemy. They haven’t seen each other in, gosh, it must be centuries already— time really does flow so strangely in this dimension, how do humans put up with it?— and so Aziraphale does his best to mentally shut out the loud human and hopes that this will dissuade him from continuing to be a nuisance. Surely someday and somewhere, someone would learn to take a hint (millennia of experience might have led another angel to believe otherwise, but Aziraphale is at heart a little bit of an optimist and a little bit  _ incredibly stubborn). _

“My shop,” he says again, with absolutely no change to his expression; the only clue that he has heard the banging is the slightest increase in volume and the way the shop doors slam closed, although of course that must be a freak coincidence, “is not an indulgence. That would be wrong. This is a place for things to be set  _ right, _ you know.”

“Mm,” Crowley nods, “yes, absolutely. Anyway, how much money can you spare for Jack here, we’re trying to find out exactly how many times he can drain a glass before dying on us and since that’s the case he hardly needs this ancient volume of whatever dusty old prophet this one is.”

Jack stops glaring at Aziraphale only to give Crowley a friendly whack on the arm that sends him stumbling into a pile of books. Aziraphale winces and refrains from making a comment about his organization system; he’ll clean that up after they’ve gone. His pawnshop does not carry china, but drunken students certainly are close enough to bulls to make a mess of it. He’s grown used to redoing inventory at the end of the day to find certain items missing or misplaced, and if something’s been stolen there isn’t much legal action he can take. At least Jack probably isn’t pocketing any of the books Crowley’s knocked to the floor. They’ll all be alright eventually, and if they aren’t Aziraphale is sure he can muster an excuse for a  _ tiny  _ miracle.

“Sorry,” Crowley mutters, only he can’t have done, so Aziraphale assumes he’s misheard. “Jack— ngh, get off of me, I can stand on my own.”

Aziraphale busies himself with the book Jack set down before him: a lovely old copy of one of the earlier volumes, it seems; very good condition, shockingly good considering its source; slight wear on the spine, and he thinks he spies some unwanted marginalia toward the later verses, but that’ll come right off with a bit of care. Yes, this will make a beautiful addition to his collec— shop. The shop (naturally the shop, that’s what he meant) can always do with a nice piece like this to add to its shelves; it makes the place look respectable. No personal stake in the matter of any sort. Aziraphale arranges his face carefully, because it never goes well if the customer knows you want what he’s got to offer, and suggests a price as Crowley dusts himself off in his peripheral vision.

Jack frowns. “Is that all?”

The others murmur amongst themselves, calculating how much drink they can get with that, probably. Crowley strolls back in front of the counter. “That’s a fair bit of drinking,” he says, with a crooked smile.

Aziraphale blinks. Is Crowley attempting to tempt them into accepting the offer? Why not try to get more money? Greed and gluttony would both seem to dictate that, as a demon, his priority ought to be making the most of this opportunity. What possible motive could Crowley have for behaving in such a strange way?

“I’m afraid I can’t offer you any more than that,” Aziraphale says firmly. “The damage to the book, the writing inside, I’m sure you understand. I think if you take this elsewhere you will find that I am being more than generous.”

And he is, honestly. Because he does very much want this book and, since he’s being honest with himself here, because apparently this man is Crowley’s friend. For some godforsa— some unknown reason, this is the group that has drawn the attention of this demon who is the most interesting person Aziraphale has ever met. In all likelihood, Jack is simply a hellish assignment and Crowley had no choice over which group of humans he’d associate with, but the fact remains that… What is the fact? He’s quite forgotten. In any case, Jack ought to take this deal and leave as quickly as possible so that Aziraphale can get back to important things like sorting his books and just perhaps talking to Crowley for a little while.

Jack hesitates and then sticks out a hand for the money. His friends cheer, Aziraphale pays him, and they all leave. Even Crowley. Aziraphale tries not to be forlorn about that.

***

Crowley is not listening to Jack’s grumbling. It’s a safe bet that he ought to be agreeing, so he throws in the occasional “Mm” and “Yeah” while his mind drifts. As usual (as always), its path leads directly to one angel.

What are the odds? Over seven hundred years since their last meeting, but it feels like no more than seven days. It’s a big planet— Crowley’s seen it from way up above; he knows its size and shape from a truly stellar view. The chances of two person-sized beings meeting up so many times… in only 5000 years they’ve now seen one another six times. To see each other again is more than Crowley can allow himself to dare to hope for.

And so he dwells on this, their last meeting, as Jack mumbles on. The shine in Aziraphale’s eyes when he looked at his book piles, no matter how much he would deny their belonging to him; the politely- and barely-suppressed irritation at the interruption of having customers entering his cozy little space, jaw tightening and lips pursing just slightly, only noticeable by someone paying very close attention; the gentleness of his hands as he handles his merchandise. Always holding back, Aziraphale is— always so good. No wonder he hardly spares a glance for Crowley.

From behind his sunglasses Crowley can look for as long as he wants, can stare shamelessly, and the glasses are only part of the reason. It’s because he knows Aziraphale will never try to make eye contact that he doesn’t mind exposing himself even as he hides. He’s spent their six encounters observing without ever being observed, hasn’t he? Because Aziraphale won’t sully himself. Won’t risk anything of the sort. Crowley accepts the blessing with its sting, the gift with its curse. He’s used to learning to revel in the low and the shameful.

It’s his job, isn’t it, hasn’t it led him to Jack? Jack, Crowley notices, is waiting for him to say something.

“Definitely,” he says hastily.

Jack grins. “Let us do it, then! Come, Anthony. We will show  _ him." _

The alarm clock will not be invented for many years, but loud warning bells are going off inside Crowley’s head. “Sorry, what?”

"And it's all thanks to you for the encouragement," Jack says, clapping a hand on Crowley's shoulder. He leaves, and Crowley's not sure where he's going but he's afraid to ask. He lets Jack walk off without him.

Later, in hindsight, he won't be able to say he's surprised by the mob the next day.

His already-restless sleep is disturbed by a crowd marching past the inn where he's renting a room. It shouldn't matter that Crowley hasn't gotten any decent sleep, really, but he's trying to pick up the habit. Seems like the sort of thing he ought to do, for blending-in purposes. That's what his reports say. The Lower-Downs wouldn't understand the appeal of being unconscious. Anyway, Crowley's put out by the interruption, and his mood isn't improved by seeing a mass of people shouting.

Crowley grabs his sunglasses and stumbles outside to grab hold of the nearest person. "What'ssss goin' on?"

The woman snatches her arm away from him, disgusted. "Drunk!"

"M'not drunk, it's early morning," Crowley protests. "What's all this?"

With a huff, the woman stomps away and rejoins the group as it continues on its angry way. Crowley rolls his eyes and tries again.

"Hey! What's the big idea? Where's this lot headed?"

The man he's addressing is carrying a heavy lantern and wearing a heavier frown. "It's that damned moneylender!"

Crowley's heart jolts. "Who? Which? Why?"

"Those Jews, they're taking all our books. Students cannot learn if the pawnshops take their textbooks!"

"Most of 'em never wanted to learn in the first place," Crowley says slowly. "Took precious little convincing, I can tell you."

The man shrugs. "Don't know about any of that. I'm just here because that Fell has got my wedding ring and if this goes nicely I may recover it yet."

Crowley clenches his fists and begins to run before any unfortunate incident occurs. He doesn't much fancy explaining to Hell why a random human spontaneously combusted in his immediate surroundings, though they'd probably approve. He's got to get to Aziraphale, and first.

If he can get to the pawnshop… if he can convince Aziraphale to abandon his treasured books and leave— with him…? If Aziraphale will only be _ safe, _ Crowley won't mind anything else. Let Jack burn the whole damn town. But not Aziraphale.

Crowley doesn't dare spend a miracle now. Hell will be watching too closely, with mass violence brewing and his name at the head of it. So he runs on only his own power, the result of which is his unimpressive arrival at the shop. Thoroughly winded and with a stitch in his side, cursing this form and this city and this planet: pathetic— but first. He has outpaced even the sounds of the approaching mob. Crowley pounds on the door and then doubles over to breathe.

It is eons before the door opens. "Crowley?" Aziraphale is startled, as he should be. This is not what they  _ do. _ They bump into one another in the course of things, the two of them; they do not go looking for each other. It’s unfamiliar territory Crowley is forging here. He tells himself that he doesn’t care.

“Got to go,” he gasps out.

“Goodness,” says Aziraphale, “you’re positively breathless. Do come in and have a seat.”

“Shouldn’t play host to demons,” says Crowley, once he has air enough in him for speech, “and you’ve  _ got to leave. _ Get out of here.”

Aziraphale stares. “Why?”

“Oh, for— would you just trust me? We don’t have much time!” Crowley holds out his hand.

“Trust… you?” Aziraphale does not take the hand. “Really, do you hear yourself? I’m not going to—”

“They’re coming for you. For your shop, for the books. Jack and the others, they’re all on their way here, and I shouldn’t be here. I really shouldn’t be here, and they want to bloody kill you, so would you take the hint and get a move on, angel?”

Crowley catches his breath, finally, and looks at Aziraphale. Aziraphale hesitates. Crowley pauses and comes to a decision: he lowers the sunglasses. “Look,” he whispers, voice raw and hoarse and far too gentle for his liking. “Please.”

Aziraphale steps forward and closes the door behind him. Then he glances backward. “Are you sure I can’t just save the books? It’s such a lovely collection…”

“They’re on their way here  _ because _ of the books.”

The face Aziraphale makes is only distantly related to a smile. A third cousin twice removed, estranged on the miserable side. “We both know the books are an excuse, I think.”

Crowley has no response to make. He swallows. Nods.

Aziraphale snaps his fingers, pulling downwards in that familiar motion (how many times has Crowley seen this? and is it enough to justify having memorized it as a trait of the Enemy rather than one of Aziraphale’s endearing idiosyncrasies? He’d rather not wonder). The door locks with a soft  _ click _ and the sign in the window flips around. Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“I prefer to keep my things well-organized,” says Aziraphale primly, almost defensively, although of course that is absurd. “Whatever happens while I am… away, I will know that I took care of my shop to the end.”

Caretaker. Guardian. Protector. Angel. Sometimes it is easy to see why Aziraphale was chosen to bear Eden’s sword. Sometimes it is easy to forget why humanity deserved to receive it from him.

The first strains of the riot’s shouts are beginning to reach them. Crowley glances in the direction of the sound. “We have to leave.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale bites his lip and looks back toward the shop once more. “Give me… a moment?”

“Angel. There is no time. Your books will be fine.”

“So will I,” he says fiercely. “They cannot kill me.”

“They can bloody well try!” Crowley yells. “You think— you think Gabriel will want to let you back down here in a fresh new body, hm? If you get discorporated fighting off a whole town on your own? You can’t win every fight, Aziraphale. Let’s  _ go. _ We can still make it.”

Aziraphale shuffles his feet. “I can’t,” he says, worrying his fingers together, bouncing in place just a bit, eyes flickering between Crowley and the shop and some distant approaching figures who do not seem very eager to make legitimate purchases. “I just… can’t.”

Crowley drops his shoulders. He shoves the sunglasses further up, more firmly into place, back where they belong; back to where no one can see anything but what he chooses to show them. Where no one can get in.

“Fine,” he spits. “Guess I came all the way out here for nothing, then. Stupid stubborn git. Go ahead and get yourself stampeded or whatever, see if I care.”

_ You do care, _ Crowley imagines Aziraphale saying.  _ I know it. _

Aziraphale says nothing of the sort.

“I suppose this might be goodbye,” he says instead. Crowley wishes he could believe that the quaver he hears is real, that it is intended for him, that it is the result of— of something other than fear at potential oncoming discorporation. Crowley wishes a lot of things.

He makes a noncommittal noise. “Sure.”

It will not be goodbye. Crowley is certain of that for two reasons. Reason the first: Aziraphale will not be killed at the hands of these cretins. It is impossible to fathom, and so it is impossible for it to happen. Reason the second: if…  _ somehow…  _ the first point fails and Aziraphale  _ is _ temporarily and inconveniently discorporated, he will return eventually. Because surely even Heaven would realize that Aziraphale is the best field agent they could ever hope to find; surely everyone who meets him must recognize his value. He glows. Crowley is willing to admit that they might try sending someone else for a little while; he refuses to consider that they would stick with it long. Aziraphale will survive, or he will return.

Both of these reasons, though, are only sound logic because of the secret, third reason pulsing at the heart of the question. It will not be goodbye, because Crowley won’t let this be the last time he sees Aziraphale. If Aziraphale exists anywhere, Crowley will come to him. It’s more than true; it’s a fact of reality. Apples fall from trees, planets orbit stars, and Crowley will always find his way back to Aziraphale.

So it’s not  _ goodbye _ so much as  _ arrivederci, _ maybe— one of those almost-synonyms saved from redundancy by the subtleties of nuance.  _ Until next time. See you later. _

***

This time, it isn’t centuries before their next meeting. It’s not decades, or years, or even months. It might not be a week. Crowley hasn’t gone anywhere near the area of Oxford where he last saw Aziraphale, but he’s convinced himself (or nearly) that Aziraphale must have moved on by now, so there’s nothing keeping him away anymore.

Aziraphale is sitting in the middle of the street. He is barefoot, and unguarded, and his expression is bleak. There pass a complicated few seconds of silent debate, and then Crowley steps closer and says, “Ruin your clothes like that.”

Aziraphale startles. He tears his eyes away to turn to look at Crowley, which makes Crowley follow the path of the gaze he’s interrupted, and his heart performs an unpleasant, unpracticed waltz between his lungs. His rib cage feels battered. The pawnshop is gone. Demolished, maybe, or more likely burned judging by the sooty smell lingering, still, in the air.

“Oh,” he says, and Aziraphale gives a pitiful little nod.

Crowley spends a moment telling himself to walk away again, and finds himself sitting down beside Aziraphale instead. He wonders how that happened. Also, distantly, the probability of a cart running over the both of them in the next few minutes.

“You can rebuild it,” he says, without knowing quite who is saying these things. “Not that big a miracle, when you come down to it.”

“They’d never approve it,” Aziraphale says mournfully. “And it wouldn’t be the same, anyhow. I had such lovely books, you know, some of them quite old.”

“But you saved them. You said you were going to save them.”

Crowley doesn’t remember how to breathe. His chest is too full of heavy-pressing concern to bring in air. Aziraphale sniffs beside him and it costs a Herculean effort to maintain the air of nonchalance Crowley’s been working on since Eden.

“Yes, well, not all of them, I’m afraid,” says Aziraphale. “Not to mention what they’re— what’s been happening across the channel.”

“France?” Crowley frowns. “What’s going on in France?” He really ought to stay more in the loop on current events; one of these days, Hell will ask him how his project in Spain-or-wherever is going and he’ll have no idea what they’re talking about, at this rate.

“They’re…” Aziraphale draws in a deep breath like he’s trying to remind Crowley how it’s done. His voice shakes on the next words. “Burning books. The Talmud. In the streets, by the— by the cartload.”

Crowley’s silence is not enough. His words cannot be, either. Nothing is enough. He clears his throat and he stares at the ruins of what was once a pawnshop and he says, “This is my fault.”

It means  _ I’m sorry _ and  _ I shouldn’t have led them to your shop _ and  _ I had no idea. _ It means  _ That damned fruit, I never would have let her have it if I’d known they’d come to this. _ It means  _ I did this, I’m sorry, I’m the one who led us to this position and I’m the one who made you cry, I’m sorry that I can’t say any of this out loud, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry I might choke on the taste of this apology. _

Aziraphale says, “Oh, thank you,” because what he’s heard is something more along the lines of  _ I’ll take the credit for this Downstairs, they’ll believe me when I say I did this, no one will blame you. _ Because Aziraphale assumes the best of people. Because he’s an angel and he’s far too good for Crowley.

Crowley shakes his head. “You don’t understand.”

But then Aziraphale is biting his lip. “No, I don’t,” he admits. A confession, and Crowley’s never been one for church but suddenly he thinks he knows what it feels like to be on the other side of the booth wall. Listening at the window, keeping quiet, allowing the moment to remain anonymous.

Except this is not private, not hidden. Aziraphale wipes at his face and tries to be silent, and Crowley extends a hand like he’s planning to help him up, and then he’s being pulled into a hug. He has no idea what to do with this situation.

He’s receiving all sorts of new information, really, in this position. Things ranging from  _ Aziraphale’s hair smells nice _ to  _ The back of Aziraphale’s neck is soft beneath my hand. _ Maybe he could pass this off as a reconnaissance mission; Crowley’s merely holding Aziraphale for hellish reasons, oh yes, he’s gathering important strategic data regarding the Enemy. Obviously.

Only it’s rather hard to keep all of this significant business in his head with the insistent weight of an angel in his arms. Aziraphale buries his face in Crowley’s shirt and sobs, which puts an end to any and all thought of ever mentioning this scene to anyone from headquarters. It also puts an end to the feeble thought of denying that there is anything happening here. Crowley lays an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, goes to press his lips to Aziraphale’s forehead, hesitates. Too much, too obvious.

Crowley tries not to see the ashes of the store, but there is nowhere else to look, nowhere but at Aziraphale. And he cannot intrude on his grief, on this despairing sorrow, this sorrowful despair. Crowley closes his eyes so that one of them, at least, will not be crying. He is definitely not going to cry.

“It’ll be okay,” he murmurs, because that’s what you’re supposed to say. He isn’t sure if he means France, or Aziraphale, or the world at large. Maybe all of the above. He isn’t sure if he believes it, either, but for the moment Crowley knows he has to.

Aziraphale jerks his head in a way that might be a nod or might be a shake or might just be a stifled cry. Crowley fights the urge to stroke his hair. He has never seen Aziraphale like this. He never wants to again.

_ Even if that means never holding him again? _ asks a horrible little voice inside him, and he could scream.  _ Even if he never lets down his guard again? _

And what kind of a person would this make him, Crowley wonders, to have to think about whether he wants Aziraphale miserable and hurt so that  _ he _ can take pleasure in it? What kind of a person, if he weren’t already a demon, already branded as the worst anyone could ever be.

It’s a long while before Aziraphale sits up. Too long, if one considers the likelihood of their having been seen; not nearly long enough by any other measure. Crowley’s arms are bereft without him, now. They will be forever after. He will always be missing the feeling of their being wrapped around Aziraphale, of how it thrummed deep in his core to be so close to angelic might. Like it did once, long ago. Like it won’t ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful @jumpandfall made this beautiful artwork to accompany this chapter!  
> 


	4. All I've Ever Learned From Love

**1652, Oxford, England**

“Have you been to that new shop, off to the east a bit? They say it’s the first coffeeshop in England. Been open a little while now, I think. Hard to keep track, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale frowns. “Why are you telling me this, Crowley?”

“Lovely chap called Jacobs runs the place,” Crowley says, “and guess what it’s called.”

Aziraphale refuses to guess.

“You’re no fun. Get a load of this, he’s named it the _Angel._ Hm?”

Aziraphale suppresses a smile. “You’re trying to convince me that I ought to offer it my patronage, then?”

“In so many words. Yeah, angel, I’m saying you should go and have a coffee at this place. You’d like it if you gave it a try, you know you would.”

“And…” says Aziraphale, eyeing him, “You would be there?”

Crowley shifts. “No,” he says, but it’s obvious that he’s lying.

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow and Crowley groans. “Alright, yes, but it’ll seem like coincidence. No one’ll ever be able to prove anything. We won’t even talk. I’ll send you a dessert from across the room and it’ll all be dreadfully proper.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be _im_ proper,” Aziraphale concedes. He pauses. “What sort of dessert?”

Crowley laughs.

***

“Hello, gentlemen! Welcome to the first and finest coffeehouse in England.”

Crowley grins at Aziraphale. “First? Is that a definite claim?”

Jacobs scowls. “Edwards, Roseé… they will tell you theirs is first. Nonsense.”

“I’m sure,” Aziraphale says, shooting Crowley a look before he can rile anyone up more than necessary. “Is my table ready?”

“Ah, your table… yes.” Jacobs suddenly looks uncomfortable.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “You _do_ have my table?”

“There must have been some oversight,” Jacobs begins. “My deepest apologies, sirs, but there seems to be a slight issue.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Crowley says, frowning. “Thought I had a reservation. Two tables.”

“There is only one available,” Jacobs says, and points it out. The available table remains resolutely singular. “I don’t know how this could happen.”

“Me neither,” mutters Crowley. “Catch me making reservations again. Blimey.”

Aziraphale is still looking at the single table. It has two chairs pulled up beside it. It is empty, and waiting, and would it really be so wrong to sit next to Crowley and have a drink? He’s already come here with him.

“I don’t know,” says Aziraphale quietly, more to himself than to anyone who might hear (Is anyone paying attention? Dare he?), but Crowley pauses his grumbling.

“Oh, come now. Surely you’re not still caught up in the scandal of the thing.” With a glance at Jacobs, Crowley lowers his voice. “Sixteen hundred years after asking me out to oysters and you’re worried about sharing a table for a cuppa?”

“I— no. Of course not.” Aziraphale has made up his mind. “Yes, we’ll take the table. Thank you. May you have a blessed day.”

Crowley’s making a face. Aziraphale fidgets defensively. “Yes?”

He waits for Jacobs to see them to their table and promise to bring their orders before answering. “S’nothing. Just… so _angel_ -y. Angelic. Angelical. Whatsit. In your face, like.”

“Well, of course I’m angelic, I’m an angel,” Aziraphale says, nonplussed. “I really don’t see what you expect me to do about it.”

“Ooh yeah, it’s your very nature,” Crowley says, stretching out his words in that infuriating way he has. He slumps in his seat. Aziraphale twists his fingers together in his lap. “Tell me, how was Edinburgh?”

“Now don’t start,” says Aziraphale. “That’s different, you know, it’s— it’s a different sort of thing altogether.”

“‘Course it is.” Crowley is suddenly and inexplicably moody. “Forget it.”

Aziraphale presses his lips together. “If you must know, Edinburgh was lovely. The blessing was simple, the tempting— well, the tempting was actually the simpler of the two. Apparently he’d been itching to steal that cattle anyway.”

“Phew,” mutters Crowley, “Load off your conscience, then.”

“Quite.” Aziraphale smiles. “Come on, Crowley, chin up. You’ve done plenty of officially-sanctioned good miracles yourself and you seem to be doing alright. That is, sanctioned for _me_ to perform, but you were right; they haven’t mentioned noticing any difference. And nothing from your end, either, I assume?”

“D’you really think I’d be sitting here if _they_ ’d heard anything of the sort, angel?” Crowley’s grump is interrupted by Jacobs’ arrival with Aziraphale’s coffee.

“And nothing for you, sir?”

“S’right. Just the one’ll be fine. Not much of a drinker myself.” Crowley cracks a smile. “Least not in places this clean.”

“Now, really,” Aziraphale scolds. Jacobs looks between them and opens his mouth, but walks off without saying anything.

“He’ll be wondering why we asked for separate tables if we know each other,” observes Crowley. “Nosy sod.”

“There really is no call for that sort of thing,” Aziraphale says.

“Don’t need gossip going around that I haven’t planted myself,” Crowley replies. “Might need a bit of a chat with him after this. Don’t want it getting out that we’re, y’know, out on the town in each other’s company.”

“Mm. I suppose not.”

Aziraphale glances at Crowley, who is still watching Jacobs. “Crowley?”

Distracted: “Yeah.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeats.

Crowley still doesn’t look at him. “S’my name.”

Aziraphale abandons subtlety for a moment. “Look at me.”

Crowley does. At least, Aziraphale is pretty sure he does. Those blasted sunglasses of his. “What?”

“I… You know, of course, why we need this to be kept quiet.”

Crowley seems to be rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I know, angel. Why d’you think I’m keeping an eye on our friend here? Can’t let it get back to Heaven that you’ve been spotted with a lowlife like me, can we.”

“No,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley nods. “I mean— no, that’s not it. The— the reason, that is. That’s not the reason.”

“What?” He’s confused, and rightly so; Aziraphale’s not making much sense, and he knows it.

“Sorry, what I’m trying to say is— Heaven isn’t the problem here, Crowley. It never has been.”

“You told me otherwise in Wessex,” Crowley says. “I seem to recall something about _You don’t want to get Gabriel upset with you._ In fact I’m sure of it.”

Aziraphale pauses. He thinks back. “Alright, so it has been,” he admits. “But it’s _your_ side that’s the real problem, Crowley. Heaven might punish me, but Hell would— they would _kill_ you. Totally.”

“Cheery,” Crowley says. “You always know just what to say to a bloke over coffee. A real sparkling conversationalist.”

“Stop changing the subject. Why won’t you take this seriously?”

Crowley pushes his chair back from the table with a scrape of wood against the floor that makes everyone else in the room wince. “I’ll see you around, Aziraphale.”

“Crowley, don’t go.” Aziraphale reaches out: instinctive, unplanned. He catches Crowley’s arm just before he can storm off.

“You’re ruining my dramatic exit,” Crowley says. His chest is heaving.

“Sit down.” Aziraphale’s tone brooks no argument. Crowley sits, but at an angle that makes it impossible for Aziraphale to see his face. “No. Turn.”

Crowley shifts in his seat. Aziraphale waits for him to speak.

“What do you want?” Crowley’s voice is low. Hushed. Almost gentle, though Aziraphale knows better than to say so.

_What do you want?_ There are any number of answers. A larger book collection would be nice. A new waistcoat. Another cup of coffee. And of course there are the more important things: peace on earth, goodwill to all, et cetera or whatever the official party line is at the moment.

Then there are the unwantable things. The off-limits, absolutely-not, under-no-circumstances things. Aziraphale wants these, too. But he cannot say them and so he dares not think them. Angels do not have free will. Angels do not _want._

“I want you to be careful,” he says, surprising himself.

Crowley stares at him for a long moment. “Right.”

“Just…” Aziraphale clears his throat. “Look after yourself.”

“Always do,” Crowley says. He claps a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, so briefly Aziraphale can’t even be sure it happened, and stands. He watches Crowley stroll out of the coffeeshop.

“I do hope he isn’t off to do something foolish,” he tells Jacobs, who’s just come to remind him to pay his bill, and who wasn’t looking to be any sort of confidant in the clandestine affairs of strange men who leave his shop without ordering anything.

“Oh,” says Jacobs, “I— I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says slowly. “He always is. Of course.”

They always are. They always will be, eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual I would love to hear from you! Let me know what you thought! Please drop a comment and share your reactions! <3


End file.
